Bernie said, “Before you go, tell me something. How well do you know Blankenship?”
“Mostly by reputation. He’s a raft contractor and speaks for the association. Before that he worked for some environmental group. Passionate guy. Why do you ask?”
“A friend of mine thinks he might be dangerous.”
Palmer laughed. “You’re starting to sound like your husband. See you at the canyon.”
26
Back at the motel Bernie opened the door to her room and saw the neatly made bed, the fresh towels in the bathroom, and the three one-hundred-dollar bills just where she’d left them. She knew she and Chee were lucky that the hotel had such an honest cleaning staff. She put the money and the note back in the envelope and then inside the room safe. It was good that Blankenship didn’t want the money, she thought, now that it might be evidence.
She called Cordova to discuss the links between Robert and Rick and Palmer and Blankenship the night of the bombing. She couldn’t reach him and didn’t leave a message; the interconnections were too complicated. She put the book she was reading in her backpack and went out to the police unit.
As she parked at the Hotel Hopi, she felt her phone buzz with a text message. Darleen? No, a reminder from Sandra about a staff meeting next week. Not hearing from her sister made her edgy, especially when Darleen was a long way from home with someone male. CS seemed trustworthy, but so did a good scammer.
She sat in the lobby waiting for Atwell, called Mama, and listened to the news, mostly a progress report on Mrs. Bigman. “She comes every week. I try to show her what to do, and she tries to learn. She picks me up in her car and we go to that senior center. They keep it warm there. Next time, she says she’s coming early so we can have lunch. The food is for us elderlies, but that one can eat if she pays a little.” The woman had begun to grasp the basics, Mama said, but Mrs. Bigman made a lot of mistakes. Mama said it with a smile in her voice.
“Daughter, are you still at Tó Naneesdizí?”
“I am.”
“You sound like you have something on your mind.”
“I’m waiting for a lady who is part of that big meeting about the Grand Canyon. I’m giving her a ride.”
“Do you know why that young man died?”
“Not yet.”
“Remember this: it wasn’t your fault. Just like when your Lieutenant friend got shot. That wasn’t your fault either.”
Bernie helped herself to the hotel’s free coffee and pulled the novel from her backpack.
A light touch on the shoulder interrupted her reading. “Hi there.” Jessica Atwell wore a knee-length coat with a fur-trimmed hood and looked as though she’d been crying. “Thanks for being my driver. Sorry for the trouble. I’m ready to go. I’ve never ridden in a police car.”
As Bernie drove, Atwell tearfully volunteered the details about her mother-in-law’s illness. Bernie expressed her sympathy. “With that family situation to deal with, how did you make the time to be part of the mediation?”
“I care what happens at the canyon, and the Archaeology Conservancy board of directors had no one else with, well, how shall I say it? With the right temperament. It’s good in a way. Gives me something different to focus on.”
Bernie adjusted the rearview mirror. “How long do you think the mediation will take?”
“I don’t know. If Blankenship has his way, we will fire Palmer and disband, leave things as they are. He joined some us for dinner after the party last night. He believes Palmer sees the canyon as a place for people to admire from their car windows or buzz over in helicopters. He thinks Canyonmark will destroy what he calls the ‘wild soul of the Grand Canyon’ by making it easier for people to visit who can’t walk without help, who can’t breathe without oxygen tanks, who aren’t what he calls ‘normal.’ He said those old coots—that’s what he called them—gave up their right to visit the canyon by not taking care of themselves, by watching movies instead of running marathons.”
Atwell took a tissue from her purse and blew her nose.
“Mom is one of those old coots, I guess. She’s in a wheelchair now and on oxygen. She always wanted to see the Grand Canyon, but she can barely make it from her bed to the toilet. That guy is a first-rate horse’s—” She interrupted herself. “Bernie, did you see that?”
“What was it?”
“A big animal.”
Bernie looked in the rearview mirror and scanned the roadside. “Probably a deer. They’re common here, a problem actually.”
“No, it looked like a huge coyote or a muscular oversized fox, but the tail was different. I just caught a glimpse. I’m glad it wasn’t in the road.” Atwell stretched her hands toward the heater vent. “What’s going on with the weather? Is a storm coming? It feels cooler.”
Bernie said, “I hear there’s fog at the canyon. I bet it’s beautiful.”
She turned off the main highway at the designated spot and followed the dirt road over Navajo reservation land toward the potential construction site. After a few minutes of bouncing along, she saw the bus, a scattering of parked vehicles, and a red-and-black food truck. She noticed Duke and an ancient woman puttering outside, setting up menu signs and condiments. The delegates stood in clusters. “I think they’re waiting for you, Jessica.”
“I better get over there. Don’t worry about taking me back to Tuba; I can jump on the bus.”
Bernie grabbed her backpack and scanned the group for Chee and Palmer. She found them, as well as the FBI agents whom she’d seen at the reception, now wearing official logo jackets. She spotted Durango and a few other protesters. Fish Man must still be in jail, she thought, or he’d be here, too.
Palmer motioned toward them.
“This way, you two. We’re ready to go to the site. Delegates, stay together. If you have kids, keep an eye on them. We’re going to walk from here for about twenty minutes to give us a better idea of the scope of the proposal and some options. And you’ll see something splendid, too—the canyon filled with fog.”
Chee trotted up to her. “Thanks for being a chauffeur.” He told her Palmer would lead the short hike to an overlook where the delegates could imagine the resort. “He will point out where the development might be based on plans A, B, and C. Of course, no one will see a thing unless the fog lifts.”
“I’m eager to look at the fog,” she said. “I hear it’s like a lid of clouds, and if you hike down far enough, you’ll be free of it.”
“After the tour we get the lunch, more talking, and the bus back to Tuba City. You can leave after lunch if you want.”
Bernie said, “Atwell filled me in on Blankenship on the drive over. He sounds like a creep.”
“That’s how I see it,” Chee said, “but Palmer doesn’t take him seriously.”
“What are those cars doing here? I recognized Dashee’s unit, and I figure the black sedan is FBI. But the others?”
“Some protesters followed the bus. Some vehicles were parked when we arrived. Palmer believes they are probably hikers because several trails start from here, but I’m on the alert just in case.”
Bernie noticed the group beginning to assemble for the hike. “I’ll hang back here with the stragglers. You get to hike with the big guy.”
Chee said, “Don’t lose contact with the group. It would be easy to get lost in the stuff.”
Palmer asked the Navajo delegates to lead the way; he positioned himself in the middle of the pack with Chee behind him. The trail demanded that they walk single file. Wisps of fog rose over the canyon rim, but for the first minutes of the group’s hike descent, visibility was perfect.
Bernie flashed back to another hike she’d taken in this same area a few years ago with Chee and Dashee. That time, she had walked all the way to the river. She had touched the dark rock at the canyon bottom, the oldest thing on the planet. She’d tried to impress Chee with how tough she was. Today, she had nothing to prove, but Rick Horseman’s death and Blankenship’s possible role in it wei
ghed on her. After negotiating several welcome sets of switchbacks that slowed the rate of descent, the trail widened to an overlook. Palmer and the Navajo delegates encouraged the group to cluster there. Below them, an ocean of white filled the immense space between the canyon’s rocky shoulders like cotton batting in a giant’s quilt.
She walked down the path a bit farther as the delegates assembled for Palmer’s talk, far enough that she could hear only the sound of her boots against the surface of the hard-packed trail. She stopped and inhaled the cool air, enjoying a few moments of solitude. Then, out of the edge of her vision, she saw something move. Something tan and large. A mountain lion? She tried to remember what, if anything, she’d read about the relationship between náshdóítsoh a guardian of the mountains, and people trespassing in a lion habitat. All cats were curious, but mountain lions had a deep and wise fear of humans.
She stared at the place where she’d noticed it and then looked up and down the slopes.
Whatever it was, it was gone.
27
The field trip had served its purpose, Palmer thought.
Although the fog blocked the view of the confluence and the possible construction sites, the delegates marveled at its beauty. He heard the little boy say it looked like whipped cream on a giant cup of chocolate.
The Navajo delegate who had led the hike explained to the others how rarely this weather came to the canyon and how blessed they were to encounter it. Some nodded in agreement. The Hopi and the Hualapai delegates volunteered impromptu stories about fog and their cultural viewpoints of it, and the Havasupai woman said she’d toss in a few tales after lunch or on the bus back to Tuba City. Even Chee had calmed down a bit out here. If Robert— No, he corrected his thinking. When Robert recovered, they’d come here together. The boy had offered him a second chance at being a dad, and he’d accept the invitation if he could arrange time off.
When the fog stories ended, Palmer opened his black bag and gave them each a map that showed where Canyonmark planned to develop, describing the construction sites that would be further evaluated if the resort were authorized. He restressed that the goal of the mediation was to help the Navajo Nation gather insights its leaders could use in making such an important decision.
The walk back to the spot where lunch awaited, an uphill hike, took longer than Palmer had expected, and he noticed the signs of low blood sugar. The stress of the past few days had upset his routine, and he knew he should monitor his diabetes more closely.
Despite his initial misgivings, the Paiute food truck worked as an excellent demonstration of the juxtaposition of commerce and nature, offering warm food especially welcome on a chilly day. As contentious as they were, none of the delegates complained about it, not even Blankenship. He wondered if Denny Duke and his aged mama could cook and serve quickly enough, but Duke had assured him he’d get a helper or two. As the group drew closer to the truck, the familiar smell of French fries made his mouth water.
The temperature, in the low fifties, allowed for eating outside if people kept their coats on. The delegates, some family members who had tagged along, and even the protesters who had followed the bus settled down to eat. Duke called them to the window to order, table by table. Mama Duke bellowed out the numbers when the food was ready.
Palmer found a place at a folding table across from a man named Crenshaw, the National Park Service delegate. Chee the ever-present sat next to him. Crenshaw must have jumped the line because he already had lunch, a barbecued beef sandwich, fries, and an apple.
“So, what happens when the session resumes tomorrow?” Crenshaw popped a fry into his mouth.
“Well, it might not be tomorrow. We have to check on the heating issue. But whenever we resume, I’ll wrap up the public comments. Then we’ll see if you delegates can agree on what issues to discuss.”
“I’m glad you arranged this trip.” Crenshaw picked up another fry. “I think it’s good for all of us to realize that our decisions aren’t just theoretical. They’ll have an impact that will last long after we’re gone.” He turned to Chee. “Isn’t that right?”
“Sure thing.”
Crenshaw mentioned the National Park Service’s detailed approach to planning, and how long it had taken them to release their latest draft to the public because of interagency disputes about the focus. “And those arguments were among guys who basically already agreed about everything. I think these sessions could take until hell freezes over to resolve anything.”
“I hope not.” Palmer began to experience that sagging, light-headed detachment that came when his body was off-kilter. “Excuse me. I need to use the facilities.” He picked up his leather bag and slung it over his shoulder.
Chee started to rise, too.
“Sit, for goodness’ sakes. I’ll be right back. I’ll yell loudly if I fall in.”
As Palmer left, he heard Crenshaw launch into another topic. “The police presence here, all this security? Well . . .”
The lecture faded as he neared the outhouses. The fog was rising, drifting up to the lunch area. Perhaps by the time they left, it would have vanished. They could go back to the overlook for a quick view of the canyon’s cloud-free magnificence. That would give Chee one more thing to worry about.
Even though having a bodyguard was a pain in neck, he liked Chee. The man had a sense of humor and a smart, attractive wife. Joking was one of the many things he had enjoyed about his marriage to Lona. Had he ever told her she was one of the few people who kept him from taking himself too seriously? Probably not. He could add that to his long list of regrets.
Palmer disliked outdoor toilets, but he needed a private place to check his A1C levels and inject the insulin before lunch. After years of experience, he did the test quickly. His blood sugar had dropped even lower than he’d expected. He pulled out the pouch where he kept his insulin pen. He would give himself another injection that kept him alive. Then food to offset the dose. Everything in balance. He smiled. The Navajo Way. Before he could give himself the medicine, the door burst open. “Just a minute,” he said, and then he saw the man and felt the gun pressed hard against his spine.
The voice was hard, too. “No noise or I’ll shoot. If you listen, you might live.”
Palmer nodded. He felt dizzy and his head ached. “I’ll listen, but I need my insulin.”
The man, a person he’d seen helping Duke and his mother at the food truck, ignored him. He’d noticed the fellow in the audience at the mediation, too, but he couldn’t conjure up the name.
Palmer tried again. “Say what you have to say, but let me take my insulin. I’ll listen to you. You don’t need to threaten me.”
Instead, the man grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the door. He picked up the insulin pen Palmer had dropped and put it in his pocket. He pushed the mediator forward, away from the outhouse, away from the delegates, toward the gaping hole of the fog-shrouded canyon.
Palmer swallowed his fear. He’d been in tough spots before, although never at gunpoint. “Talk to me. What’s this about? If you’ve got issues with the development, tell me what I need to hear and then let’s have some lunch. No need for a weapon. I won’t harm you.”
Palmer felt the gun push harder against his backbone. The man’s voice was an ugly snarl. “You’ve already done your damage. You cost me the woman I love and the son I always wanted.”
Chee waited fifteen minutes, then stood, leaving Crenshaw in midsentence. “Palmer should have been back by now. I need to find him.”
On his way to the toilets, he saw Bernie sitting with Atwell and the Hopis.
He told her that Palmer was gone. “I’ll check the outhouse. I’ll yell if he’s there.”
She nodded. “If he’s not there, I’ll go to the bus and then I’ll walk down the trail we took earlier.”
Chee said, “I’ll hike the other main trail. Let’s meet here in twenty minutes.”
She said, “If he’s not in the john, you should tell Dashee and the agents. They
can help us.”
“Right. All this might embarrass Palmer enough that he’ll act like a grown-up. I’m sick of this hide-and-seek stuff.”
The porta potties were the old-fashioned wooden kind with a simple peg latch. The doors to all three stalls stood open, the interiors unoccupied. He found Palmer’s leather bag on the floor in the one on the far end. Chee decided to come back for it—or tell Palmer where it was—after he found the man.
He turned around to see the two FBI agents. They continued the campsite search while he went back to tell Bernie, who acted on their plan. Then he found Dashee.
“Have you seen Palmer?”
Dashee looked up from his sandwich. “You let that guy get away again? Check the bus. Maybe he’s in there taking a nap.”
“Bernie’s doing that. Cowboy, you’re in charge while we’re searching for him.”
Dashee grew serious. “Mr. Keevama would like to talk to the delegates, share another story about why we hold this place sacred. I’ll tell him to go ahead when everyone finishes lunch if you guys haven’t found Palmer. And we’ll ask the Hualapai woman to speak. That will keep things calm for a while here. Good luck.”
The coach driver, sitting with a plate of food on her lap, opened the door when Bernie knocked. No, she hadn’t seen Mr. Palmer since the bus had unloaded.
Bernie called Palmer’s name as she hiked down the trail, moving as quickly as she could through the fog. It would be easy, she thought, to slip and fall here, especially now that the fog had come this high. Maybe Palmer had walked away from the group to have a cigarette or catch a few minutes of quiet. He should have told Chee, she thought, not just disappeared.
After about ten minutes of searching, she reached the overlook where the group had stopped. If Palmer wanted privacy, he needn’t have hiked farther than this, but there was no sign of him. The trail continued through the fog, deeper into the canyon. At some point it must connect to the main trail that originated on the rim, the route Chee would check.
Song of the Lion Page 25